Alice watched the kids curled up beside Jim, a knot of red hair and small limbs. She smiled, but it slipped when she saw his face. The bruises had soured to yellow, with fresh purple ringing the edges. His glasses sat on the tray next to the bed. She brushed her fingers across them, then eased the door shut, careful to muffle the latch.
She raked a hand through her hair, her fingers grazing the back of her neck as she walked toward the lobby.
"Coffee?" she asked the nurses.
"Lobby lounge, just past the waiting area."
She nudged through the double doors and spotted Officer Pollack reading the Gothamist. She crossed to the coffee machine. It spat steam and dropped a paper cup before sputtering dark liquid.
"It's awful," said a voice behind her.
Rita stood holding her own cup. "Just a heads-up."
"I'll have to make do," Alice said.
"It's what we do, isn't it?" Rita smiled faintly.
Alice wasn't sure what she meant, but nodded anyway.
"You've been here what—three months?"
Alice nodded again. She lifted the small cup. "It's such a strange place."
"It is," said Rita "And it only gets stranger. My father used to say Gotham was a magnet for the odd and terrible. A place for nightmares, but he also said it's what bonds us."
Rita took a sip.
"He also said places have memories, and if you're not careful, you'll end up echoing someone else's mistakes."
Rita lowered into a chair and motioned for Alice to join her. After a beat, she did. Pollack's eyes stayed on the paper, but Alice had a feeling he was listening.
"Don't be fooled," Rita said quietly. "He sees more than he lets on. Johnson swears it's a military thing."
"I believe it. Jim came back that way too. Always alert."
"And straight-edged?"
"No. He was always like that. His dad was a Marine—whole line of them. Becoming a SEAL was Jim's way of rebelling." She smiled at the thought.
Rita chuckled. "Well, that explains a lot."
Alice glanced at the comment, her brow raised. She hesitated. "How much do you know? About what Jim's gotten into?"
"He never told you?"
Alice drank instead of answering.
"Smart man. It's easier that way. People assume the wives always know. In my experience, they suspect. But they either look away—or they're left in the dark."
"Jim thinks he's protecting me. Keeping space between us."
"But you want in?" Rita said gently. "Guys like that—they're built out of old stone. Letting go feels like failure, or at least a step toward it. Like if they stop gripping the wheel, everything crashes. Sometimes it's already headed that way—they're just too stubborn to see it."
"Is yours like that?"
"Syd?" Rita laughed. "Not even close. He's been a lot of things—quiet wasn't one. Told me everything. It's part of the reason why I fell for him. My dad, though—he was the locked box. Wouldn't talk about work."
"He was a cop?"
"Defense attorney. One of the best. Mentored half the courthouse—including our current ADA. For the longest time, I never knew what he really thought. About the job. His choices. Every time I asked, he'd just say, 'It puts food on the table.' Eventually though—he opened up."
"He used to talk to me, but the harder things got the less he said," said Alice glancing at her coffee, "In Chicago the guys all liked him, he was respected by his team, neighbors, everyone."
"So what happened cut deep?"
Alice nodded. "He never said it out loud. But it did. And now here we are." She hesitated again, looking to Rita, biting her lip, then finally just speaking. "Those men—was that about Captain Flass?"
Rita took another sip. "Yes."
"And what did Jim do?"
"Flass was in the ER last night. He's home now. Broken nose, a face full of bruises."
Alice didn't react.
"You're not surprised."
"Only that he still had it in him. I thought…maybe he was getting older. Calmer."
Rita chuckled. "They don't get calmer as they get older. They just choose their battles better. But give them a good reason—the switch will flip. Syd's no different. Never walked away from a fight—still tells me about it like we're teenagers and I'd be all hot by it."
They both laughed under their breath.
"Jim was a quarterback in high school," Alice said. "Fights would break out. He'd always be the first in—even if he wasn't on the field."
"And you swooned?" Rita teased.
"I was a teenager on the honor roll and cheer team, always did what was right, so yes, I thought it was thrilling."
"When we're young, it's easy to get caught up in it all. Now we just roll our eyes and wonder what we got stuck with."
They both laughed.
"I miss those days sometimes," said Alice. "Life was simple."
"Simple's good. Most cities are hard, but Gotham is just a special kind of pain. It has a way of making you feel isolated and alone."
"It does," said Alice.
"I used to tell my son to choose his friends like he's building a family, because in the end that's what they become. And when you find them, you hold tight. It's the only way through," said Rita.
"You have a son?"
Rita sipped her coffee. "I had one."
Alice nervously clenched her cup, regretting having asked.
"He died when he was eighteen. Drunk driver," she said.
"I'm sorry."
Rita sipped her coffee. "If you want to know what's going on, you need to take that wheel from him every so often. Sometimes you have to remind them you're not just a passenger in their life along for the ride." Rita said, resting a hand on hers.
Alice wanted to lean on her shoulder, to stay in that warmth a little longer. Instead, she squeezed her hand, hard.
Rita pulled her into a hug.